Himquare

In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt. Shame comes in waves. It’s not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeon’s hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. It’s just a side effect. In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissocia